


Room For One More

by walkwithursus



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Caretaking, Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Extremely Soft and Incredibly Gay, Fluff, Gift Giving, Holidays, Marriage Proposal, Sickfic, Soft Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:55:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21881869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkwithursus/pseuds/walkwithursus
Summary: Crowley catches the demonic equivalent of a cold right before the holidays. Aziraphale is there to take care of him.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 126
Collections: Oh Come All Ye Sinful! A Depraved Holiday Exchange 2019





	Room For One More

**Author's Note:**

  * For [therentistoodamnhigh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/therentistoodamnhigh/gifts).



> Happy Holidays to my giftee, Silver! I hope you enjoy this fic and have a wonderful holiday.

A week before Christmas there was a knock on the front door of the cottage Crowley and Aziraphale shared in the South Downs.

Aziraphale glanced up from the stove top to peer through the frosty panes of the kitchen window. One of Crowley’s enormous rose bushes blocked the majority of his view, but as far as he could tell there were no strange cars in the drive that might forewarn of visitors. Shaking it off, he turned his attention back to the pot on the stove, stirring and seasoning liberally until another knock sounded, unmistakable this time. Aziraphale hastily licked the wooden spoon clean before dashing out of the kitchen to answer it, wiping his hands on his apron as he went. 

“Crowley? Is that you?”

The door shouldn’t have been locked to Crowley, though he couldn’t imagine who else it might have been. Grasping the handle, the angel pulled open the heavy wooden door just as a gust of cold air blew in, pushing a few snow flurries into his pink face. 

“Happy Christmas, angel,” Crowley announced. 

The demon stood just outside the door frame, stomping snow crust off his boots and onto the red and green welcome mat. His long arms were piled with gifts that Aziraphale had to crane his neck to see the top of, oddly shaped packages in all sorts of bright, festive colors. Crowley sneezed and one of the parcels toppled off the pile. 

“Crowley! It’s freezing, come inside at once,” Aziraphale cried, leaping aside to make room for the demon to squeeze past him. Crowley obeyed, ducking through the doorway and trailing fallen packages as he journeyed down the short hall to the sitting room. Aziraphale knelt and gathered them up in his wake, simultaneously scrutinizing the demon’s bundled up appearance from behind. Along with a puffy black jacket Crowley had donned a scarf, earmuffs, hat and gloves for his journey, all of which belonged to Aziraphale, judging by their telltale tartan pattern. 

“You won’t believe the day I’ve had,” Crowley was saying, side-stepping a fallen Christmas ornament with a little less grace than usual. Crowley had insisted upon decorating the cottage for the holiday season, and a mishmash of festive decorations cluttered the room: Christmas tree, menorah, specially selected yule log, and a few bits and bobs from traditions long passed. “The crowds! I never would h-h-ha- _CHOO!_ ”

Aziraphale refrained from blessing him. Crowley had made it to the sitting area, and just in time, too, as the force of his sneeze sent the armload of presents cascading into the first available armchair. A few of the smaller ones fell to the floor. Apparently satisfied with this, Crowley tossed his borrowed gloves onto a nearby table and unwound his scarf just as Aziraphale arrived with the remaining packages. The angel was slightly more careful in setting his armload of gifts aside. 

“Are these all for me?” Aziraphale asked fretfully. The two small gifts he’d had in mind for Crowley suddenly seemed small in comparison, even the one that had seemed so perfect when he’d spotted it through that shop window just a few days ago.

“Every last one,” Crowley replied happily. 

With his arms now free, Aziraphale moved to stand on tiptoe behind the demon to assist in removing the earmuffs and hat from his head. Crowley sniffed the air. 

“What are you cooking?” 

“Hungarian goulash.” 

“Smells nice,” Crowley said appreciatively, flicking out his tongue to gather the scent further. Setting aside Crowley’s outer-things, Aziraphale guided him toward the worn leather sofa and Crowley sprawled out across its cushions before letting out another ear-splitting sneeze. 

Aziraphale frowned. It wasn’t like Crowley to _sneeze_ like that. Having preternatural control of his corporation meant embarrassing bodily functions were typically kept to a minimum. For a demon, sneezing twice in a decade might be considered curious — sneezing thrice in five minutes was downright suspicious. 

“You don’t look at all well,” Aziraphale hedged, sitting down on one end of the sofa and bringing Crowley’s feet into his broad lap. He unlaced the boots to find Crowley’s socks soaked through with frigid water. “My goodness, did you step in a puddle?” 

“Might’ve,” Crowley said vaguely, wiggling his scaly toes as the socks were peeled from his feet. “Couldn’t really see where I was going. It’s awfully damp out there.” As soon as his feet were bare Crowley tucked them between the cushion and Aziraphale’s warm backside with an appreciative moan. “Ah, much better.” 

Aziraphale peered closer at his companion. Crowley’s cheeks were flushed bright red, his cherry-tipped nose dripping profusely. These were more than just attributes, Aziraphale realized — these were _symptoms_. The angel had spent enough time assigned to hospitals and sanatoriums throughout history to recognize illness when it stared him in the face, though it was quite a bit more rare to see a demon afflicted. Crowley caught him looking and gave a loud, nostril clearing sniff. 

“I’m fine, angel, really.”

“You are most definitely not fine,” Aziraphale said sternly, leaning forward to press the back of one plump hand against Crowley’s forehead. “You’re burning up.”

“Demon,” Crowley reminded him with a wave. 

Aziraphale clucked his tongue at that and stood to leave the room. There were certain procedures humans typically followed in these sorts of situations, and Aziraphale wracked his memory now in an effort to remember them. Amputation probably wouldn’t be necessary, and he was fairly certain bloodletting was no longer commonplace, but a hot water bottle seemed innocuous enough. It would take time to heat the water, though, and so he marched to the linen closet and returned moments later with a pile of blankets bundled up in his arms. 

“Oh, no,” Crowley protested, catching sight of the bundle and squirming backwards on the sofa. “Really, those aren’t necessary. I’m not even cold, honest.” At that exact moment, a shiver wracked his thin frame from head to toe, so violent it chattered his teeth. Aziraphale pointedly raised one eyebrow. “That doesn’t mean _anything,_ ” Crowley insisted. 

“Are you able to make it to the bedroom?” Aziraphale demanded flatly.

“What for?” 

“So you can rest, of course.”

“No point,” answered Crowley. “Not sick.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, and ignoring Crowley’s continued protests, began laying blanket after blanket on top of his prone form. Crowley had a difficult time accepting care or attention directed toward himself at the best of times, which meant Aziraphale had to try all the harder when the demon truly needed it. He fluffed a few throw pillows, flat after years of use, and tucked them under Crowley’s head before snapping his fingers. A roaring fire appeared in the hearth, dry wood spitting and flaming and giving off a pleasant orange glow. Crowley peered at it over the tops of his blankets. 

“Nice touch.” 

“Thank you. Now, you just relax,” Aziraphale said firmly, smoothing the blankets up to Crowley’s pointed chin. “I’ll be right back. I’m just going to put the kettle on.”

With a final pillow fluff, Aziraphale headed into the kitchen to boil enough water for the hot water bottle he knew he had lying around somewhere. He found it just as the kettle finished, and after fixing a cup of tea for them both and checking on the bubbling goulash, Aziraphale returned to the living room, arms laden with supplies.

“I’m back,” Aziraphale called, “and I’ve brought — ”

The angel cut off mid-sentence. During his brief absence, Crowley had fallen into a deep sleep, breathing audibly through his mouth in a rumbling half-snore. Quietly, Aziraphale set the mugs of tea aside and stood over him. Crowley had failed to remove his sunglasses, and they sat perched slightly askance on his long nose. With a fond sigh, Aziraphale set them on a nearby table and took in the demon’s sleeping face. Crowley’s eyes, so often wide open and lacking eyelids, were closed for once and rimmed with deep purple circles, while the hot flush in his cheeks stood in stark contrast to the greenish pallor of his skin. 

Aziraphale smoothed the damp hair away from Crowley’s forehead. As a being of angelic stock, Aziraphale had never quite understood why Crowley was susceptible to bouts of illness, but after witnessing him go through it several times throughout history he had come to accept that it was just one of the human quirks he had adopted, much like sleeping. 

After tucking the hot water bottle under the blankets and assuring himself that Crowley was as comfortable as could possibly be, Aziraphale returned to his cooking, vowing to check in on the demon every so often just in case he was needed. 

Later, Aziraphale fixed himself a lone plate and took it out to the sitting room to eat. As the armchair was full of presents and the sofa occupied by Crowley, he sat on the rug in front of the fire to enjoy his meal. Though he wished Crowley were awake to appreciate his cooking, Aziraphale was more than content to stay by his side and watch over him, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that were their roles reversed, the demon would have done the same for him.

——————

Crowley did not wake up again for several days. This was of no surprise to Aziraphale, as Crowley's tendency to sleep through difficult times meant that illness was no exception. 

Aziraphale spent the majority of that time by his side, keeping him warm and comfortable as he tossed and turned in sleep. Having shared a bed with him since moving to the South Downs, he had become familiar with the sounds and movements Crowley made in waking, and was prepared by the time he fully roused. 

“Oh good, you’re awake,” Aziraphale said brightly, poking his head into the bedroom with breakfast tray in hand. The tray was laden with juice, tea, scones and other breakfast foods Crowley enjoyed, as well as a single flower from an English primrose bush Crowley had once deemed ‘well-behaved.’ Crowley gave an affirmative groan into his pillow as Aziraphale set the tray on the bureau. Gently, he took Crowley by the shoulders and assisted him in sitting up. “How are you feeling?” 

“Like I got hit by a train,” Crowley said hoarsely, taking the cup of tea Aziraphale offered him and inhaling the steam. “And I would know.” 

“I can only imagine,” Aziraphale murmured sympathetically, taking in the demon’s unfavorable appearance. Crowley’s hair was sticking on end, his skin blotchy red in places and covered in a sheen of sweat in others. Aziraphale tucked a stray lock of disheveled hair back into place. “Speaking of locomotives, you’ve got steam coming out of your ears.”

“Have I?” Crowley screwed his eyes shut, and the curling smoke lessened. At length they reopened and he glanced around himself for the first time. His yellow gaze narrowed. “When did I make it to the bedroom?”

“The night you came home sick. I carried you in here while you were asleep,” Aziraphale answered promptly, tucking the blankets more firmly around Crowley’s seated figure. Crowley waited patiently for him to finish before settling more comfortably back against the pillows propping him up. He took his first tentative sip of tea. 

“What is this?” 

“Chamomile, with extra honey for your throat. I know it’s not your usual, but I figured it might be worth a try. At least until you’re feeling better.” Aziraphale held out a plate of extra crispy toast and beamed as Crowley accepted the darkest piece. He attempted to nibble as Aziraphale perched on the bed near his feet. 

“How long have I been asleep, then?” Crowley asked, knuckling at the corner of one eye. “Feels like ages.” 

“Oh, not long. Just a few days,” Aziraphale said soothingly. 

“Mm,” Crowley hummed as he took another bite of toast. Aziraphale had just begun to get comfortable at the foot of the bed when Crowley’s mouth flew open, spewing crumbs. “Wait a moment. A few days?!” Crowley scrambled to sit up, but Aziraphale shifted forward and pushed him firmly back down before he could exert himself. “Exactly how many?” 

“Er, I don’t recall,” Aziraphale admitted guiltily. “I sort of lost count.”

“Well, what day is it?”

Aziraphale hesitated. “The first of January.”

Crowley’s eyebrows drew up in despair. “The first?! You mean I missed Christmas? All of Chanukah? _New Years Eve?_ ” Crowley groaned, pressing the heels of his hands over his eyes. 

“I’m so sorry, my dear,” said Aziraphale, reaching up to run his fingers through the hair at Crowley’s temple. “I tried to wake you a couple of times, but you must have really needed the rest.”

After a few deep breaths Crowley sighed and sagged back against the pillows. “S’alright, really. Not as though I haven’t experienced thousands of them.” He covered Aziraphale’s hand with his own. “I’m just sorry you had to spend it alone.”

“I wasn’t alone,” Aziraphale insisted with a soft smile, and he patted the mattress between them. “I was right here beside you.”

“The whole time?”

“Mhm.”

Crowley flushed and Aziraphale felt him squeeze his hand. “Well, what about your gifts? Did you open them on the right days?” 

“I haven’t touched them,” Aziraphale said stoically. 

Crowley perked up at that, and when he attempted to sit straight once more Aziraphale let him. “In that case, we can still enjoy a little holiday yet,” he announced, and Aziraphale smiled back in return, Crowley’s enthusiasm being rather contagious. 

———————

After finishing off the breakfast tray between them, Aziraphale and Crowley traveled out to the living room, which was made warm by the still glowing coals in the fireplace. Clad in a pair of slippers and with the tartan bedspread wrapped firmly around his shoulders, Crowley headed over to the fireplace to poke the flames back to life while Aziraphale wandered into the kitchen to grab a few things. He returned to find the fire roaring comfortably, two mugs of hot cocoa and a plate of ginger biscuits in hand. 

“You found the yule log,” Aziraphale said delightedly, catching sight of the special piece of wood burning in the fireplace.

“I did,” Crowley replied. “Although, you really didn’t have to save it for me.”

“Nonsense,” said Aziraphale as he set the treats from the kitchen down on the coffee table. Crowley picked out a few choice presents from his pile, and together they settled on opposite sides of the squashy sofa, face to face with just enough space between them for a few parcels at a time. 

At Crowley’s insistence, Aziraphale began the long and arduous process of opening his gifts. By the end he had amassed a rather large pile of intricate, shiny objects, snuff boxes and spoons, unique bookmarks, actual books, a flat black rectangle called a ‘Kindle’, and countless other items, each as thoughtful as the last. Meanwhile, Crowley’s space remained comparatively bare. Crowley had taken the one gift Aziraphale had placed under the tree for him, a hand-knitted woolen jumper, and immediately crammed it on over the bulky Henley he’d been wearing. Aziraphale fretted over a few dropped stitches, but Crowley insisted he couldn’t see them, and that Aziraphale was right, maroon really was his color. 

Before long, the pile of presents was depleted until there were no gifts left to open. Wrapping paper, ribbons and bows littered the area around them, none of it salvageable. Crowley had been very adamant that Aziraphale not save the paper, insisting that at least half the fun of opening presents was destroying the pretty packaging, and Aziraphale had agreed if only to see the joy in Crowley’s expression multiply with every rip and tear. 

Aziraphale gazed fondly at him now. Crowley’s face was partially lit by the fire, the low light casting a healthy glow across his sallow cheeks. It was a relief to see him looking well after nearly two weeks of illness. Not only well, but _happy_ , content, a half-eaten biscuit in one hand and one of Aziraphale’s new toys in the other. The moment was so soft, so perfect, Aziraphale was almost afraid to break it, as though by saying or doing anything unexpected he might fracture the tenuous peace between them. But it was only force of habit. Peace was no longer tenuous or artificial between them and hadn’t been in years, and he couldn’t have imagined a more perfect moment to reveal his second gift if he’d tried. 

Aziraphale’s prolonged silence seemed to have caught Crowley’s attention. 

“What are you staring at?” Crowley asked with a quirk of a smile, passing a hand over his mouth. “Have I got crumbs on my face?”

“No, no, I was just thinking,” said the angel with a shake of his head.

“About?” 

Aziraphale hesitated. His throat felt constricted, foolish heart beating rapidly in his chest like the fluttering of a bird’s wing. “Well, not thinking, really. More like remembering.”

“Remembering what?” asked Crowley, and he turned his full attention to Aziraphale now, setting the object he’d been fiddling with aside.

Aziraphale took a deep breath. “Do you remember earlier when I said I’d stayed by your side the whole time over these last few days?”

“Yes,” Crowley said slowly, eyes narrowed. 

“Well, that wasn’t entirely true. I did pop out for an afternoon.”

“Oh.” The worry line between Crowley’s eyebrows smoothed. “Well, that’s alright, angel. I wouldn’t have expected you to hang around me the whole time. I can’t imagine I was very good company.”

“You’re always good company,” Aziraphale protested. Another deep breath, and he drew strength from the tenderness in Crowley’s expression. “No, you see, the reason I went out was because I still had one last gift to get you.”

“You didn’t have to do that," Crowley demurred, at the same time as he glanced curiously toward the empty present pile.

“I wanted to,” Aziraphale said quickly. “In fact, it’s something I’ve wanted to give you for a long time.” 

“Well, is it socks? Cause I could use a pair of matching socks,” Crowley teased, giving the knitted material of his jumper a playful pinch. 

“No, it’s not socks. It’s. Well, it’s something else.” 

A final deep breath, and then, summoning all the courage he possessed, Aziraphale reached into the pocket of his housecoat and withdrew the small velvet box. Crowley caught sight of the object and the laughter froze on his face, his previously languid form gone frightfully still. Aziraphale held it out between them in the palm of his hand and prayed that the words he hadn’t been able to find, words he'd only ever dreamed of speaking, would come to him now. 

“I know what you’re thinking; this is just another one of those silly human traditions, and maybe you’re right. But, well, I think we rather enjoy some of them, don’t we? Like the holidays, for example,” Aziraphale began, fidgeting ever so slightly with the box in his hand. Some of the velvet had worn away at the corners from where he’d kept worrying at it in his pocket over the last week, and he hoped Crowley wouldn’t notice. 

It didn’t seem likely. Crowley had taken one look at the box before fixing his eyes on Aziraphale’s face, expression wide and startled like that of a wild animal. Aziraphale imagined he must look similarly and plowed ahead before either of them could lose their nerve. 

“I know you may not see much point in the whole institution, which is perfectly understandable. It’s just a silly formality anyway. I already think of you as my husband and have for some time now. But I thought I might like to make it official — that _we_ might like to make it official. And so I'm proposing a little Arrangement of my own.”

With that, Aziraphale prised the box apart, revealing its contents. The ring inside was simple stoneless silver, gleaming orange with the reflected firelight. 

Crowley expelled his breath all at once. Slowly, gently, Aziraphale reached out and took the demon’s trembling hand, squeezing it tightly in his own as he removed the ring from its bed of black silk. The whites of Crowley’s eyes had long since vanished, and Aziraphale looked at them now, at the raw emotion expressed within them and felt his heart swell in his chest. 

“May I?” 

Crowley’s throat bobbed and he jerked his head. “Yes,” he croaked. “Yes, please, yes.” 

“Yes?” Aziraphale paused with the ring poised on Crowley’s fingertip. 

“Yes, Aziraphale, please, just put the damn thing on,” Crowley choked out, and Aziraphale obeyed, sliding the band all the way to the last knuckle. 

Crowley surged forward and kissed him. Aziraphale scarcely had time to prepare himself, made clumsy by the sheer joy and exhilaration of the moment, and they laughed into each other’s mouths as they attempted to fit their lips together properly. Never in six thousand years had this seemed a possibility, and yet at that moment Aziraphale felt that everything had lead up to this. He felt hot tears on his face, the source of which he could not say, and crushed Crowley to him so tightly it was a good thing neither of them technically needed to breathe. 

At long last they both pulled back, faces only inches apart. Crowley’s eyes were rimmed red and his poor chapped nose had started running again. Aziraphale withdrew his handkerchief and offered it, and Crowley dabbed the moisture from his face with a self-conscious chuckle. 

“You old sssentimental,” Crowley hissed, before a hiccup interrupted him. 

“Says the one crying,” Aziraphale teased as he wiped an errant tear away with the pad of his thumb. They shared another kiss, lingering, sweet, before Crowley pulled back with a purpose. 

“Wine. We need wine,” he announced before attempting to stand up. Still clasping hands, Aziraphale laughed and pulled Crowley gently back down into an embrace. 

“Not a chance,” he murmured, kissing the demon’s temple. “You’re still ill, remember?” 

Crowley groaned. “Spoil sport,” he muttered, before his eyes landed on their abandoned cups of tea. “Guess we can make do?”

Aziraphale smiled in agreement, and they clinked their mugs together in a toast, _to us_ , before drinking, free hands still clinging together. Aziraphale looked down at Crowley’s thin fingers entwined in his own larger ones, at the ring glimmering on his finger, and Crowley stared as well, as though he couldn’t quite take his eyes away. Aziraphale knew the feeling.

“We’ll just need to get one for you now,” Crowley said at length, breaking the soft silence that had fallen over the room now that the final gift had been given. Aziraphale looked pointedly at the towering pile of presents Crowley had already bestowed upon him, and Crowley grinned sheepishly. “Or not.”

"No, no," Aziraphale said hastily, and with an indulgent smile he pressed his lips to Crowley’s knuckles before grabbing the last ginger biscuit. “You know what I like to say; there’s always room for one more.”

**Author's Note:**

> The recipe for goulash Aziraphale was cooking in this fic can be found [here!](https://www.allrecipes.com/recipe/231009/chef-johns-beef-goulash/)  
> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments greatly appreciated.


End file.
